“I am getting a knowledge of all classes on your continent,” said Biddulph. “Some I like better than others!”
“Don’t be too harsh on us malecontents for the sin of slavery. It is an ancestral taint. We shall burn it out before many decades.”
“You had better, or it will set your own house on fire.”
It was late as we walked along the streets, channels of fever and ague now frozen up for the winter. We saw a light through a shop door, and hammered stoutly for admission.
A clerk, long-haired and frowzy, opened ungraciously. In the back shop were three others, also long-haired and frowzy, dealing cards and drinking a dark compost from tumblers.
“Port wine,” whispered Brent. “Fine Old London Dock Port is the favorite beverage, when the editor, the lawyer, the apothecary, and the merchant meet to play euchre in Missouri.”
We bought our files from the surly clerk, and made for the calaboose. It was a stout log structure, with grated windows. At one of these, by the low moonlight, we saw a negro. It was cold and late. Nobody was near. We hailed the man.
“Ham.”
“That’s me, Massa.”
“You’re sold to Murker, to go south to-morrow morning. If you want to get free, catch!”